So I’m going to say it as clearly as I can – I think he’s going to kill me.
I don’t know when and I don’t know how but he said he’d rather spend his life in prison than think of me ‘spreading my legs’ for another man and, considering what he did to the man I did sleep with, I’ve got no reason to doubt him.
This is the first time he’s left me alone since Sunday night but he’s not taking chances on me escaping. He’s locked me in the house and disconnected the phone so I can’t call anyone for help and I can’t hammer on the wall because the couple who live next door have gone on holiday and there’s no one on the other side. I’ve checked all the windows – twice – but they’re locked shut and the back door is double glazed so I couldn’t shoulder it open even if I could. An hour ago I shouted through the letter box at a woman pushing a buggy down the street but she didn’t so much as twitch. I can only assume the traffic is drowning me out or the house is set so far back from the pavement my shouts don’t carry.
I can’t even ask Mrs Evans to help me – not that she would – because she’s not here. She suffered a heart attack while I was in York visiting my mum. That’s why James has gone to the hospital, to see her. And I’m trapped and there’s nothing I can do but write.
I came back from York on Sunday early evening in a very good mood. I’d finally been to visit Mum thanks to the ￡50 James had given me for the train fare (I think he wanted me gone so he could spend the weekend with whoever it is that he’s shagging) and Mum’s mood was brighter than the last time I’d seen her.
Mum had asked how I was and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I told her that James and I were impossibly happy and we’d got engaged (she cried when I showed her my engagement ring and said she wished Dad was around to walk me down the aisle) and I was making a huge success of my costumier business. So convincing was my little tale that I started to believe it myself and, as I settled myself into my seat on the train home, I was bubbling with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell James about my visit, maybe even grab a little bit of time to organize my fabric whilst Mrs Evans took her daily nap. It was as though stepping outside London had removed the grey fog from my brain. I wasn’t neglected and put upon. I’d just become a bit depressed after everything that had happened. I needed a bit of fighting spirit, a bit of positivity back and I could turn things around. Besides, I had nearly three hundred pounds saved up. With the cake tin Mum had pressed into my hands before I left (containing nearly two hundred pounds in assorted crumpled bank notes) that was almost enough for a bedsit deposit and the first month’s rent. Maybe, I thought as the train chugged into King’s Cross, I won’t have to work in Tescos full time after all. If I live with James and his mum for another two or three months and my business takes off, I’ll only have to work on the tills part time to cover my rent.
‘James,’ I called as I pushed open the front door and stepped into the dark hallway. ‘James, are you home? I’ve had the most wonderful couple of days.’
The answerphone light was flashing red in the gloom but I was only vaguely aware of it as I abandoned my suitcase, replaced my shoes with soft, suedette slippers and padded down the hallway and into the living room. The black mask wall hanging leered back at me as I glanced around but, other than that, the room was empty.
‘James?’
‘James? Mrs Evans?’
I glanced at my watch. 7.30 p.m. There was every chance James had decided to stay on at the theatre for post-rehearsal drinks but his mother should still be at home. She normally watched Songs of Praise in the living room on a Sunday night. Perhaps she was in the toilet? Or taking a nap in her room? The house was uncommonly quiet and I felt like a burglar, tip-toeing around, barely breathing for fear of disturbing the peace.
‘Mrs Evans?’ The bathroom door was open so I tapped, nervously, at her bedroom door. ‘Mrs Evans, are you okay?’
There was no answer so I poked my head into the room. The bed was made, the curtains were pulled and everything looked normal apart from … I stepped closer to the dressing table. Margaret’s mother of pearl-handled brush was missing. So was the brown leather case that contained her manicure set and the tiny silver jewellery box that contained her wedding and engagement rings. Where had she gone? She couldn’t drive, she was terrified of leaving the house and when she met up with her friends – which was so rare I could only remember it happening twice in all the months I’d lived with her – they came to her.
I shrugged as I made my way to my sewing room. If James and Mrs Evans were both out of the house what better excuse to start sorting through my fabric? Everything was still boxed up and I knew for a fact my silks would need attacking with a cool iron before I hung them up, never mind the lin—